CHAPTER 38: New Answer

"Alexander." The voice said.

"Who are you?" He responded.

Static. His vision. He couldn't see who he was talking to. An empty room. Was it a room? No walls. Only a floor. Blackness. The static fizzled around him. Shadows. Who was this man? This shadow?

"You know who I am." The voice responded.

Not a man. Not a human. Yet so familiar. One eye. One thousand eyes. One million. Gears. Silently turning. Ever moving. Never stopping.

"Arbeteres." Alex said. A second instinct.

"Yes, I'm here." The voice was calm, almost relaxed, yet seemingly understanding of Alexander not just in his situation, but in his entirety.

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes. Yes you are." The voice said. "Do you have your answer?"

"Don't you already know?" Alex retaliated in a tired tone.

"No. You yourself have yet to decide. Well, Alex, you have to decide quickly. Decide to rest or decide to struggle. To struggle is to be tormented to no end. To rest is to finally be at peace. No more heartache. No more responsibilities. No more weight being tossed onto you to carry. But... your dreams. Your desires. Your hope. It all dies there. Do you want to live and see a world that you helped create?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Yes."

"Then rise."

Merging flesh. White tendrils like sewing threads. Stitching. Healing. A pulse. Soft, then strong. A breath. Gasping, then calm. As Alex opened his eyes and focused them, a gap through the ceiling told him it was already the middle of the night. The air was cold and dusty, with the stagnant stench of blood and bodies. It was Voiceless. Lifeless. He looked around the ruins of the room. He looked beside him. A ravine of concrete and steel. Torn through the walls and through the ground. Long, deep, and clean. Cut through like butter. Midnight's killing blow. He touched his neck, there were no scars. It felt so good! To breathe again, to stand again, to live again. He touched his earpiece.

"Holts? Anyone? Are you there?" He spoke clearly.

No response. Alex was worried. Had Holts bled out? Was he killed? Ripped apart helplessly by the machines or finished by the soldiers? Nothing. A cold, echoing night.

He lifted his foot. His first step. He began to walk. Through the hallways. Through the rooms. Searching. Hoping. The dead littered the ground. The TA had little regard for either side's bodies. They were in too much of a rush. The capital could very well be theirs soon. As he walked through one very dismantled hallway, something odd struck Alex. A trail of TA soldiers' bodies. They were all killed in the same way. Helmets off, back of the neck blown upwards into the skull by some projectile. He followed the trail of bodies. Each soldier was killed more and more sloppily. At the end, three familiar bodies. One sat upright with half of his face blown off. Another rested face down with a missing leg and pools of blood collecting at the leg and stomach. Abel and his older, shorter friend. The Ethiopian soldiers who complimented him after he had played the piano. Abel's one remaining ice colored eye was open, still widened with horror and shock. A brotherhood gun rested in Abel's hand, his finger on its trigger. He had died in that position. Alex examined closer. Both Abel's legs were punctured by debris. Was it the bombs? Was it the soldiers? Alex did not know. Based on the evidence, he concluded one thing. They didn't give up without a fight. They set up some sort of ambush trap in this hallway. Abel's friend, he had many more independent wounds. He was the bait for this trap. He risked everything to get a loner's attention. The third soldier, a woman Alex had seen around the base but never talked to personally, had an impact wound in her ribs. She and Abel stayed under the cover of one of the two parallel doors sitting just by the mouth of this hallway, sitting behind their door with it wide open and the lights turned off in the rooms. When their chance came, both her and Abel rushed into a pincer attack. The woman unclipped the helmet while Abel shot the lone soldier at close range somewhere in between the back of the neck and head. They were aiming for the medulla of the brain. At the base of the brainstem, it controls vital functions such as heartbeat and respiration. Coupled with the almost certain chance of full-body paralysis, this was the best chance at immobilizing and killing those roaches. But that strategy didn't hold out for long. Here they were, dead. How long ago was it? That they were enjoying themselves, that they were dreaming about life afterwards. Abel had wanted to become a modified human. Based on how he had talked about it, he was excited about its academic and life-bettering qualities. He was so excited to experience the world through a better body. Now, he will never get to. He will be a name. Dirt... in the ground... One hundred years from now, no one will ever remember him again. No. That's not true. He was here. In Alex's memory. As long as Alex survived, so would Abel and his friends. How dare he not greet the friend! Mr. Abate, the friend of Abel Tadele. As for the woman, who he didn't even come close to greeting, she had only a rank and a name, patched onto the uniform and shown on the dogtags. They would only be remembered for a minute or so of their life by him. No. He would research them later. Give them their proper story, their proper place in his mind. He lined the bodies up flat on the ground, and closed their eyes. Abel Tadele, Zesiro Abate, and Negasi Belay. He said his final goodbyes, and made sure to think about ensuring their bodies were properly collected and restored to their families. Who knows what times lied ahead for this country, after all. He needed to get back to work. All of the hallways were centralized around one center hall. The vault. This was the last standing base for a reason. It had survived WWIII and was the Ethiopian equivalent of Fort Knox. Sure, it had seen some wear and tear, but the vault itself was praised for its nigh invincibility. But why didn't Alex get sent there? Because, of course, it was on the target list of supplies that needed to be demolished. Gold, silver, and other high value resources. All were stored here. It was literally Ethiopia's last hope not only defensively but also economically. If anything happened, Ethiopia's economy would take a massive hit. Alex wondered, just how many hits did it take them to blow through? The vault itself was supposed to be immune to bombing, but could it withstand Midnight or a crazy TA countermeasure? Look at this place, it was once one of the prides of Ethiopia! Now it was nothing but ruins and rubble. A mockery of humanity's power. As he walked through the waste, he found the answer. They didn't just penetrate it, they made their own entrance into the enormously hefty wall! Granite, concrete, loads and layers of high grade, specialized steels! This iron wall, this impasse, so indestructible that it kept out tens of thousands of civilian raiders with their own tools and explosives during the riots of WWIII! Shot through, like nothing! And this damage, what a gaping hole! Alex was almost too afraid to see the inside. As he walked forward to peer into the vault, the horrific scene was uncovered gradually. He could not believe it. Holts laid on his knees, hands cupping his ears, trembling. Mumbling incessantly. Entranced in a shell-shocked state. Alex's eyes drifted upwards to the main display. Frilo. The iron fortress folded in around his head, the massive dent drifting meters outwards, solid metal ripples forming an awe-striking pattern. His face, there was nothing left. Crushed. Molded. Destroyed by a massive impact. Frilo was hanging from this iron wall, suspended limply by his head and arms. Oh no. Oh no. No. No. No. No. No. His arms. The wrists were crushed and molded into the wall's steel which partially enwrapped it, as if they had been clamped by strong, flat metal jaws. The arms were stuck sideways. In Frilo's last moments, he was trapped, unable to run or maneuver, before the enemy made the killing blow. A gruesome crucifixion. What was wrong with them, the TA? Frilo was a good man. A passionate soul. A real friend of Alex and Holts. A friendship that exceeded shallowness. He was willing to die for both of them. To give up his dream of arts and song for theirs. This reminded Alex. Some people achieve their dreams by crushing others'. The TA. Their apathy disgusted him.

"Holts..." Alex said. He either ignored or was not listening. "Holts..."

His murmuring.

"It happened again. It's happened again. Why? Why does this keep happening? I should have left Alex and followed him. I found that brat dead, anyways. Who cares what they would've done. The brotherhood are fools anyways. Why? Why, God, why?"

Alex stepped back. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But at the same time, he understood. He was tied down because of Alex, instead of being able to take risks and fundamentally utilize his ability as a sniper. Why was the brotherhood so dumb? Did they solely underestimate the TA, the victors of the third world war? Moneyman, their head. He was either crazy or liked gambling. He didn't bet it all on this place, he's probably betting it on the capital. This place, though vital, was more bound to fall. It was a sacrifice in hopes that he, Alex would unlock his abilities before or in the middle of battle to take out Midnight then and there. He, Alex, was too late. Though, luck did strike. Alex was alive and breathing, and his abilities were full-fledged. Alex had learned one last lesson from this. That no plans were perfect, and to not blindly trust the people making those plans. Alex was pissed. Finally, he felt just a little more confident in his own decisions. Now, he was reasoning on his own.

"HOLTS." Alex articulated boldly.

Holts looked back in shock, the surprise of Alex's voice being heard once more.

"Alex? ALEX!? WHAT?!?" Holts looked back down, contemplating if his PTSD had finally set him over an edge he could no longer cross back.

"Yes, It's me."

"But… your head…" Holts made an effort to communicate, but didn't have the mental strength to. His body, his face. He looked extremely tired, so detached. The wound was to blame for some of it, the rest was caused by the immense weight and emptiness of losing a close, lifelong friend and remembering the dreaded nightmares from his past experiences facing the TA in war. He had again been so hopeless, so powerless to stop them as the things that made up who he was were snatched up and taken away, never to be seen again. The expression on his face was drenched with apathy. The water had run dry, the pillars holding up his determination flaking and crumbling as he pondered over a simple question. What was the point? What benefit or detriment would it be to him now if either side won. There is no one worth protecting and fighting alongside anymore. He once thought he was doing it to make this world a better place. What stupidity. In this vault had laid the last major reserve of gold and high value items that kept Ethiopia on its last leg. Now, not a single sparkle or speck of this massive room's great treasures remained. Emptied, hollowed, and devoid of hope. Ethiopia will fall. That was not a prediction, that was a statement. Its trade had never recovered from the last world war, and now the backing of its currency was null. Even if the Brotherhood miraculously won, they had neither the resources nor the motives to sustain an entire country. And what did the other countries do in this matter? Nothing. They knew, and did nothing. Ethiopia made a pathetic and vain attempt at sheltering their citizens from the news of Midnight, but with so many bases down in rubble, news must have leaked out a while ago. Out to the nations, out to the citizens within them. To those in Ethiopia, panic had probably set in. Holts could imagine the citizens escaping the cities and country, cars backed up and people on the street, yelling and shouting. What little airlines remained packed to the brim with people. Knowing how irrational terrified people are, Holts could only imagine the chaos.

"It's ok, I'm really here." Alex put his hand on Holts' shoulder. Alex looked above at Frilo's body.

"Let's get him down from there. How dare they do that. Did LightBind do this?"

"No. It was another Plague. Diamondback. I watched him as he slaughtered Frilo and left the scene. All with his [Founder's Construct] in the form of two snakes. He had easily ignored my terrible, unbalanced shots. He looked at me with such vile disgust as he carried the late body of LightBind away with him. Alwin was his name, I heard it from his lips. That bastard didn't even bother finishing me off."

"..."

"I..." Alex started but did not finish. No words of comfort could be said. They wouldn't be deep enough to reach him, the Holts that was inside this husk of a man. Alex lowered himself and stretched his arms to give a tight hug around Holts from behind. To show him he was there for him. Was it awkward? Yes. But did that matter? No.

"So... all of this damage was caused by Diamondback?" Alex asked. If true, the difference between each plague's power was immense.

"No. The hole was caused by Alwin's final act of desperation before he fell ill and died where he stood. It was an odd occurrence. Blood ran down from his nose and eyes and whatnot. I-I don't really know what happened. I had only just woken up and had been on my way towards the main commotion."

Alex worked on Frilo while Holts was still frozen on his knees. Alex thought about GMH's and their ability of memory. They could forget and disassociate memories with emotions as they pleased, it was an effort to combat mental trauma. But this, as Alex had realized, was a terrible way to solve this problem. The guilt one had to face as they disassociated their feelings of friends and experiences long past (or as they straight up deleted them) weighed down on them more than Alex could ever know. Some had to do it or risk going insane for every moment they didn't. Some turned down the emotions they associated with those memories, but as Alex could imagine, it probably felt so artificial. So fake. How degrading, toying with human psychology like that. Alex stood up, now finally ready to reveal his own plan.

"Holts, grab your gun. I've got a mission for us."

"What?"

"We're going to stray from the plan from here onwards. And while we're at it, we can take some revenge."

As Alex stood there behind Holts in the dark empty room, the only light sources were the moonlit rays shining down at the foot of the vault's new opening behind them, casting shadows and darkness into all corners of the room. The eyes on Alex's enshadowed face glinted with a glare most uncharacteristic of him. It was blacker, malicious, and filled with a cold ambition that was gut-wrenchingly conniving. Dimmer. Dimmer. The moonlight faded behind the clouds. All that remained on Alex's silhouette were those eyes. Those brilliant, deadly amber eyes. Void of any mercy and kindness. To do whatever it takes. That's what must be done.